A Darker Side
by Hi10000000
Summary: Warning: puts the game Angry Birds in a very bad light. If you like the game Angry Birds a lot, do not read this fic.


**A/N: The "you" is neither pig nor bird. Perhaps human.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Angry Birds or Hunger Games.**

Hello.

My name is Little Rue. Have you heard of me? You have. You definitely have. After all, I am pretty famous. I'm the winner of your Games. I lived.

Winning means fame and glory, right? Losing means death. I won. I am famous. More famous than those who died, anyway.

I wish I wasn't, though.

My name is Little Rue, but they call me Bloody Rue. Because I was the sole survivor. Because while my friends and fellow pigs died around me, I survived. Their blood rained upon me, staining me red as war. I was the survivor. I am the one drenched in the blood of the fallen.

I won your Games.

I bet it came as a real surprise to you. You were never expecting a pig to survive, weren't you? The goal is for all of us to die. Dying is losing. Living is winning. That's why it's usually the birds who win. I mean, they are the ones who shoot themselves at us. They all have special abilities. They are pampered by you, the " Capitol", because they are your weapons. You raise them to slaughter us, don't you?

The birds are born to die.

I would pity them. Born to die. Born to be used as a vessel for sadistic entertainment. Born to be slaughtered in a bloody Game of death. Yet they seem perfectly fine with their fate. They like it, I realized. They enjoy killing us, the pigs, even if it means dying themselves. All sacrificed for a moment of sheer primal joy, the joy of ripping apart flesh, the joy of spilling red blood.

I would pity them, the birds born to die. But they killed to many of us.

You know how we are all split into twelve districts. After all, you did it yourself. And you know how only three of those twelve districts are bird districts: Districts One, Two, and Four. The rest are for us, the pigs.

Us, the pigs. Me.

Little Rue. Bloody Rue. The victor.

That's me.

While the birds are pampered, we are left in dirt and poverty. We have to fight to survive. You raise us, just for the birds to kill us. the birds are toys for you, and we are toys for the birds.

Not even worthy of being the Great One's toy, are we? worth so little that we are not even your toys, but the toys of your toys, are we?

Because you hate us. You took the side of the birds in the war, and now that it is over, you still like them better.

Remember the war? Remember what happened? Want a retelling of what you did to us?

You don't? Too bad.

It all started when we stole the birds' eggs.

I suppose we should not have stolen those eggs. I suppose we should have kept our sense of right and wrong, even in the desperate, near-death state we were in. Isn't that what you would say? But what were we supposed to do? We were starving to death. Our children were dying every day, by the hundreds. There was too many of us, and too little food. We were dying.

So then we saw the eggs. Those precious, wonderful eggs that would have saved our worthless selves. Perhaps we were wrong, stealing what is others'. But we were desperate, desperate to save ourselves. What can I say? It's a selfish world, where one often has to choose between them and someone else. Us or them. Only one could be satisfied...

Naturally, we chose ourselves. Our worthless, selfish selves. And so we took their eggs.

Who would've known that it would have triggered a war?

The birds were furious. Anger, anger, seething anger, it boiled from their furious eyes. Their eyes glared at us, radiating hatred that the world had never known before. Their hearts held nothing but scorching, darkening loathing for our pitiful selves. They hated us, and they attacked us mercilessly, without stop. It was hell for them, and hell for us.

But neither could stop their relentless attack, for if they did, they would be slaughtered by the other side. So we fought on, night and day, desperately building shelters to hide our young while our soldiers marched to war. Every day, every day. Living in fear, fear that we had lost, fear that our loved ones who were fighting for our lives were dead, fear that we would be attacked next, murdered next.

What do you know of this fear?

What do you know of this mind-shattering, heart-stopping, terrible fear?

Nothing.

All you know is the sadistic need to see blood shed.

When you came, the birds loved you. You were their god. You were their savior. You, wielding your slingshot weapon, shooting the birds at us with more accuracy, more power, more deadliness. The birds may have saw you as a shining protector, but we saw you as what you truly are.

A hypocrite. A bloodthirsty, manipulative, despicable hypocrite.

You always spoke of those precious morals of ours; love, forgiveness, kindness, compassion. Selflessness. But where were they when you were out on the battlefield, shooting us, killing us by the thousand? Where were that wonderful sense of right and wrong when you slaughtered us without batting an eye and cursed us when we clung desperately to life? You always spoke of resolving matters without violence, so why didn't you end our war, Great One? You always spoke of not judging a book by its cover, so why did you join the birds' side just because they are, I quote: "cooler", "prettier", and "awesomer"?

Why did you lie to them?

They believed you. They worshipped you. They loved you to the point of blind stupidity. Yet still you fool them, use them for our own purposes. When the war was won by the birds, you were the one who proposed the idea of the Games.

You.

Where are your precious morals now, you hypocrite?

Of course, all the birds loved you and blindly followed you. So when you proposed the idea of your Games, they agreed. They forced us into districts, then took up the proud roost of Districts One, Two, and Four. The districts with the killing machines.

And so the Games were established, with rules clear as day.

Every year, an amount ranging from one to ten of tributes were chosen from each district "at random", and forced to participate in the Angry Birds Game, fondly nicknamed the Games. The goal of the Games is for the birds to kill all of the pigs. To make it more challenging, the pigs are given four days to build a shelter to hide in using only wood, ice, stone, and, for a perfectly legit reason, explosives. Once the four days are up, the birds, who had been training, would erect a giant slingshot, then launch themselves at the shelter where the pigs are hiding. The birds will try to kill all the pigs by squashing them, but once the birds hit too many things, they die, too. The pigs, who have already spent four days building a shelter that is hopefully strong enough, are not allowed to move. Whoever is still alive once either all the birds or all the pigs are dead is crowned victor(s), regardless of whether he/she is pig or bird.

And this year, guess who won?

Me.

Yep, that's right. Me. A pig. One of the people you hate so much.

Bet that was a real shocker, wasn't it?

And you don't like that, do you?

You hate defeat. It's no secret. You hate defeat. And this year, I defeated you, didn't I ? I defeated you at your own Game. I survived. No pig was supposed to survive, but I did. You lost.

You lost.

I suppose it is a small victory, a small revenge, for what you did to us. The only thing we can so to hurt you. And you know what? I'm glad I survived. I feel no "regret" for making the Great One lose at his own Game. I'm glad. I'm glad I was able to hurt you, scar your giant ego.

You don't like that, do you?

Oh, what's this? You're going to do a rematch? And with all the exact same conditions as it was when I won? And I'm playing? Oh, I'm playing again and again and again until you win? I see. How wonderful. The undeserving pigs finally gain one victory, and it is quickly snatched away by the Great One. In the end, you always win.

You really hate losing, don't you?

**A/N: this was inspired by the Angry Birds Rio. I saw a mob of cheering people in the background, then realized that the birds' slingshot and the pigs' shelter were located on a stage. A bunch of people killing a bunch of other people on a stage while a mob cheers and watches with excitement in the background...I was instantly reminded of the Hunger Games.**


End file.
